


Receive

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 09:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11643675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Éomer checks on Aragorn.





	Receive

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for this week’s [silmread](http://silmread.tumblr.com/post/163061611765/35-the-white-rider).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Éomer hovers mostly by his king, still astounded at the change: when last he left, Théoden’s greatness had all but faded, waned into a wizened old man grey and cracking around every edge. Théoden was stooped, small, and ever-tired, with empty eyes that barely seemed to _see_ Éomer at all. It hurt him more than he could ever say. For that, almost even more than the wretched gaze towards his sister, Éomer despised Gríma Wormtongue. But now Théoden stands tall again, golden and grand as he was when Éomer was young, and Éomer knows exactly who he has to thank for that. Háma tells him it was Gandalf, but Éomer knows who brought Gandalf to their halls. He knows he made the right judgment out in the field, when he had nothing to go on but his own heart and mind, and he judged well. When he’s taken his fill of his king’s radiance, it’s another king he seeks. 

Attendants are now all about their visitors, marveling mostly over the elf—a strange thing in their lands—and wondering how any of them are to outfit a dwarf. Their mail likely won’t fit, but a helm may, and a shield can be found. Their armour is better built for other _Men_ , like the strong, sturdy body of the man who announced himself the heir to the throne of Gondor itself. Then, Éomer had little doubt of the truth, seeing the fire in Aragorn’s deep eyes. Now he has no doubt at all. He weaves through the crowd until he reaches Aragorn at last, tucked into a corner of the long hall, tugging the new mail into place. It shimmers and shines across his broad shoulders, dancing slickly down all his taut muscles, highlighting what Éomer already knew: this is an incredibly attractive man, whether in rags on the field or silver in a king’s hall. When Aragorn looks up from his task and spots Éomer, he bows his handsome head. 

When he lifts it again, he greets softly, “Éomer. I must thank you again, both for your aid of us earlier and the hospitality of your people.”

“It is you I came to thank,” Éomer returns, and he has to step closer as another busy servant squeezes past him; the whole place is now abuzz with new life and preparations. Even with the battles that that lie ahead on the horizon, Éomer feels invigorated, glad to be _doing something_ about it. Forced to less than an arm’s length away from Aragorn, Éomer continues, “I was right to trust in you. And you have repaid me tenfold. You held to your word, and you brought my king back from the darkness. There are no words that can express my gratitude.”

Though Aragorn smiles gently, he answers, “For that, I can take no credit. It was Gandalf that opened his eyes.”

“But it is _you_ that brought him to us, lord. And now you stand beside us, and the aid of Isildur’s heir is no light thing.”

At that, Aragorn lifts both dark brows, his grin almost wry, perhaps self-disparaging, though he seems hardly to lack for confidence. He dips his head again and insists quietly, “I am honoured. But I assure you, I am only a man, the same as you.”

Éomer’s not sure he’s even been paid a higher compliment. But he argues no further—he wasn’t brought up to fight his superiors, especially ones that deserve his obedience. He drops the subject instead, eyes now falling pointedly to the mail Aragorn wears, layered atop his tunic. The clothes he came in weren’t nearly rich enough for what Aragorn is, either in title or spirit, but Aragorn seems as humble as he is noble. As Éomer eyes the linked mesh, he mutters, “I am only sorry I had nothing better to gift you. But it looks good on you, at least.” When his eyes lift to Aragorn’s face, he finds that captivating grin grown all the larger, and Éomer dares to add, “Though, I think most things would on you.” A new light comes into Aragorn’s eyes, and Éomer quickly adds, purely for the habit of self-preservation, “At least, my sister would certainly think so.” And that’s another compliment in itself—Éomer doesn’t allow such thoughts of Éowyn to just anyone. Aragorn, perhaps, might be one of the few Men in Middle Earth actually worthy of her. 

In truth, Éomer would wish a different outcome, but he isn’t vain enough to hold to hope for it. Yet Aragorn glances aside, pausing, and when he makes his determination—perhaps that no one’s listening in—he fixes Éomer’s gaze fast with his own, and he answers softly but pointedly, “I would rather know what _you_ think of me.”

Only because Aragorn’s eyes are burning so sweetly into his, Éomer admits, “I think you are a masterpiece.”

Aragorn’s smile is warm and genuine. And it captivates Éomer utterly, fixing him to the spot, as Aragorn lifts a hand to reach into Éomer’s hair. He brushes back the golden waves that have fallen free now that his helm’s retired, the evening upon them. For one tender moment, Aragorn strokes through it, looking both curiously thoughtful and just as feral as Éomer feels. Then Aragorn tells him, “I could say the same of you, Éomer. I judged you true and strong when first I saw you, and now that I am free to better enjoy what is around me, I think you as pleasant to look at as you are to know.”

Éomer can feel his throat going dry. He has half a mind to request that Aragorn seek him out tonight and get to know him _better_.

But they’re finally interrupted, the dwarf wandering up to them with a stout shield in hand. He thrusts it up with such a clamour that the spell between Aragorn and Éomer is broken, and the dwarf tells them obliviously, “It’s a shame all your mail is longer than an elf’s legs, horse master, but this will do finely!”

Aragorn offers the dwarf a little chuckle. But as soon as the dwarf turns away again, spotting and gravitating to the elf that’s emerged from the war room, Aragorn claps his hand on Éomer’s shoulder and tells him, “Seek me out when next we have the chance to settle, Éomer, if you still think me a nice picture then. We may... speak... more.” The look on his gorgeous features says something else entirely, and he lingers just a moment too long before trailing after his companions. 

Éomer knows exactly where he’ll sleep next, and as he goes to ready his own troops, he finds he can’t stop smiling.


End file.
